


Knockin' at the Door

by smeeshii



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alcohol, Comfort/Angst, Disownment, Eventual Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Minor Injuries, Slow Burn, Slurs, Smut, self-destructive behaviour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-13 04:02:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11176602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smeeshii/pseuds/smeeshii
Summary: Yuri believes he knows Otabek better than almost anyone after a few solid years of friendship. Or at least he did.A sudden series of the other skater acting out of character have him concerned and determined to get to the bottom of things. As he begins to dig for an answer, he reveals certain secrets that change the dynamic of their relationship in ways neither are quite sure they're ready for. However, Yuri Plisetsky is nothing if not impulsive.





	1. Frustrations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [UPDATE: Oct. 18, 2017}  
> Hey, hey! I decided to revisit this fic and rewrite certain parts of it. I'm still not totally happy with this chapter, but it's better than before.   
> Come hang out with me on tumblr! neeshiii.tumblr.com

The fact that he had purchased a heavy duty protective phone case was only a relieved afterthought in Yuri's head. 

 

The clatter of the cellphone hitting the white painted steel wall and then clunking down on the rubber matted floor echoed across the arena, drawing curious glances from Russia's (and Japan's) best skaters. Fuming and glaring through his golden fringe, he stiffened at the sound of blades skidding on the ice nearby. There was a flash of red on the other side of the boards at his side.

 

"Ooh, testy today, kitten?" Mila chirped, resting her elbows on the top of the wood. Even though he wasn't looking directly at her, he knew she was wearing a smug, Cheshire grin.

 

"Shut up, hag," he spat in return, still staring at the gaudy gold case on the floor. 

 

Six days.

 

Six goddamn days with no answer to his texts, phone calls going straight to voice mail and a tiny red icon on Skype taunting him like a big middle finger in his face. Yuri Plisetsky was not a patient man by any means and after approximately one hundred and forty four hours of silence, he was in no mood to go back and forth with his fiery haired teammate. 

 

The woman quirked a perfectly plucked brow at him, eying the phone. After several years as teammates and friends, she still hadn't quite figured out which nerve was his last, but mercifully she didn't press too hard.

 

"Come over tonight? I'll cook if you bring drinks," she offered, voice not as teasing.

 

He was tempted to tell her no, shoot her the finger maybe, but not having to slave over a stove to try to create something of substance or break Lillia's strict dietary regiment for a take away meal was appealing. Though he probably wouldn't like to admit it out loud, he needed someone to vent to about his latest frustrations and Mila, for all her quirks, happened to be a pretty good listener.

 

"Fine, but keep it simple. You're cooking is worse than mine," he mumbled, picking up his phone. He chucked it in the direction of his gym bag and stepped back onto the ice, gliding passed her. Whatever comment she made was lost on him, his focus on skating out some of his frustration and niggling bite of worry that had begun at the back of his mind.

 

As he looped around the rink, he could feel crystal blue and deep brown eyes watching him. Of course Viktor and Katsudon would be concerned, they still hovered over him, even though he was now a fully functional eighteen year old with an apartment, ability to drive a vehicle and plenty of other adult responsibilities. He seriously wondered why the two bothered anymore. Even after a few years, the two hadn't grown any less overbearing or obvious when it came to anything, including their gross, very public displays if affection. Viktor still cooed over and blatantly flirted with his fiancé and Yuuri still blushed in an awkwardly endearing way. Yuri still faked gagging or vomiting at the sight of the couple's antics. In a similar fashion, they would still dramatically call him their son and pester him about "revealing" outfits and clubbing.

 

He was thankful, lucky even, that they kept their distance during this practice. Dealing with Mila would be enough, thank you very much. He didn't need the two of them breathing down his neck too. 

 

 

 

A long shower and a few hours later, Yuri scrolled through his social media feeds for the hundredth time since leaving the rink. He was sprawled out on his stomach on Mila's floor, fingers toying with the worn threads of her plum coloured shag rug. People criticized his taste in decor, but hers was something else entirely. The woman had an affinity for the purple, everything from kitschy little salt shakers to ugly wall art to the plush rug currently itching the bare part of his stomach where his tank top had ridden up. 

 

While she attempted to cook two chicken breasts in sauce of a worrying puce shade, the open laptop on the kitchen counter played current hit music. Even after he'd groaned about her horrible singing, she continued to belt out the lyrics with a glass of fruity wine dangling from hand. His own was perched on the coffee table, already half drained, but currently forgotten. His thumb padded through twitter posts, only half paying attention to what they said, before switching back to instagram to refresh his feed. Nothing new popped up yet again and he was left to groan and try to suffocate himself in the ugly purple fibers below him. Plates clicked down onto the coffee table. 

 

"Awh, little Yurochka, don't tell me I'm boring you?"

 

Yuri let out a grunt when she plopped down on his back, crossing her legs. "You're heavy as fuck, Baba," he wheezed.

 

"And you're whiny as fuck," she said, flicking the back of his head. "More so lately. What's up with you? Did our cycles finally match up?"

 

Sliding back off of him, she pushed him onto his back and motioned to the chicken... something, rice and vegetables in front of them. Sitting up, he wrinkled his nose at the dish and poked the meat with his fork.

 

"Is it supposed to be that colour?" he grumbled.

 

"Yes, I think. Quit avoiding the question."

 

He sighed and speared a piece of pepper, chewing it while she stared at him intently for an answer. When he swallowed, he shrugged and didn't meet her eyes. 

 

"Otabek," he mumbled, awaiting the usual prodding that followed his name.

 

"Ooh, tall, dark and sexy? What's he up to that's got you all wound up?" she asked. He groaned loudly at her choice of wording. While Yuri had slowly begun to bring his friend around the rest of his social circle during events or rare visits to St. Petersburg, the quiet skater was still considered a mysterious character among the skating community. Gossiping and wonderment usually surrounded any mention of him within the group of Russian skaters, particularly from Mila. 

 

"I don't know, that's the thing bothering me," he admitted, thinking it better to get on with it than beat around the bush. "I haven't heard from him in like a week." 

 

She made a face, lips twisting in confusion. "That's it? Doesn't he disappear every once in a while anyways?"

 

It was true, the Kazakh skater would on occasion vanish from social media (not hard to go unnoticed when he didn't post much as it was) and become unreachable. Usually it would occur close to a competition when practice was a necessity or when his DJing gigs were booked close together and he needed to work out a set. It would annoy Yuri to no end, but he had come to begrudgingly understand that work and practice came before responding to stupid cat videos he'd send him. This time, however, he could feel that something much different was going on.

 

"Yeah, but never for this long!" He groaned again and tested the chicken. It wasn't horrible, but over seasoned with celery salt. "Usually he's gone for a weekend or a couple days. Even then, he never has his phone shut off the whole time. My calls are going straight to voicemail."

 

Mila hummed and tapped her chin. "Well, what'd you do then?"

 

"Me?!" he sputtered. 

 

"You probably pissed him off somehow, you're good at doing that to other people. Maybe he blocked your number." 

 

Chewing a mouthful of rice, he tried to think back to the last conversation they'd had. Otabek had let him take a listen to a sample from an upcoming set during a Skype call, they'd chatted about the usual mundane things in their lives. A new venue and the latest cute thing Potya did. He couldn't recall anything out of the ordinary and they'd ended the call on a good note.

 

"I... I don't think so, he seemed fine."

 

"Anything coming up where he'd be too busy to check his phone or message you back?"

 

Again, he tried to think of something. "He had a gig at some new club, but he didn't say much about it. He might've been a little nervous, but that's normal when he hasn't played at a place yet." 

 

"Maybe that's it, he's just getting stuff together for that?"

 

"It happened like five days ago. He spaces out before shows, not after," he said with an irritated sigh. "I mean, the day after he plays he usually sleeps like a log, but it can't be that."

 

Mila pushed a chunk of onion around her plate for a moment, humming again in thought. In truth, she hadn't seen Yuri so worked up over something that at first glance seemed so trivial. If he was this outwardly frustrated, she had to guess that he was probably genuinely worried in the inside and probably needed something other than teasing. "Do... you think he's okay?" she asked hesitantly.

 

The way his scowl melted confirmed her thoughts. He ducked his head a little, staring at his plate through his bangs. "I mean... I hope so. I can't see why he wouldn't be." The tone of his voice didn't match his words, he was clearly having a hard time believing them. 

 

"Well, from what you've said, Otabek doesn't seem like the type to go looking for trouble. He might be all hot motorcycles and leather jackets and rock and roll, but he doesn't actively try to start fights or anything."

 

Yuri snorted at her description. On the outside, she had the Kazakh skater down, but his true personality wasn't so one-sided. Since the two had become friends during his first senior Grand Prix, then solidified that friendship with his own exhibition skate, the Russian had been accepted into the tiny inner circle Otabek kept close and had learned that he wasn't just what the rest of the world saw. Yes, he loved his bike and looked better than Yuri would admit aloud in leather, but he also loved to cook and write. He looked just as good in the chunky cable knit sweaters as he did in a leather jacket.

 

"He might not look for it, but it could still find him," she finished with a small shrug, drawing him back to the conversation.

 

She had a point, he didn't argue. "I guess," he murmured. The man frequented clubs of all sorts for business, there was no telling what sort of crowds he'd run into. The thought that something could have happened to him after a show was concerning. "I... I'm a little worried. He can take care of himself, but... still."

 

With a soft sigh, Mila threw an arm around his shoulders. "Yuri, give him a couple more days. If something serious happened, his coach would probably had sent you a text or Yakov would have heard about it. I'm sure when he comes back from wherever his sweet, sculpted behind has been, he'll have an explanation for you."

 

Pursing his lips, he leaned against her shoulder. She had a point there too, if Otabek had been hurt then someone would have called him. "See, you must be an old hag if you've got all that wisdom in your wrinkly old head." He made an 'oof' sound when she smacked him in the chest. 

 

"Just relax, Yuri, he'll turn up eventually."

 

\---

 

Three days later, while lounging in a nest of blankets with Potya and a gritty protein bar, Yuri's phone buzzed. By now he had stopped jumping to answer cell, it was usually Viktor, Mila or Katsudon checking up on him or responding to something he'd sent. His hand dug around between pillows and plush comforters before he felt the hard plastic case. Retrieving it, he opened the screen and shot upright in bed.  

 

_**Beka: Skype?** _

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After over a week of silence, Yuri finally gets a chance to rip Otabek a new one. However his surprise Skype call doesn't go exactly as he'd figured it might.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally some Otabae! This chapter is a lot closer to the style I was hoping for, I maaay rewrite the first to get something closer to this. I'll probably redo the story summary too at some point.  
> [UPDATED: Oct. 19, 2017]

Yuri "Sleep Til Noon" Plisetzsky had never jumped out of bed so fast. He scrambled to untangle himself from the bedding, crawling to his nightstand to retrieve his laptop. Crossing his legs as he opened it up, he had the mind to run his hands through his fringe and fluff up his top knot bun before he opened the Skype tab. The red icon that had spat in his face for over a week was finally green. He tapped open the conversation and hit video call, seething with frustration.

 

When the window finally opened up, the anger bubbling in his chest seized and dropped like a cold, worrisome stone into his stomach.

 

Even with the dark picture, he instantly knew something was amiss. A quick glance at the time told him that it would have been late in Almaty, around half past midnight to be exact, but the exhaustion bare on Otabek's face was too extreme to just be from a long day or the late hour. His usually monotonous expression held hints of regret and apprehension, and his tanned skin was marred by dark bags under his eyes and windburn on the tip of his nose and lips. His hair hung damp and wavy, unlike the usual style he blow dried it into, over his forehead as if he'd just stepped out of the shower and tousled it in a towel. 

 

His expression wasn't the only thing off. Peeking under the sleeve of his grey tee shirt, his left shoulder was a thick, gauzy bandage that stopped just above his elbow. Yuri could see a small, reddish spot on his jaw as well. Beyond the already growing concern in the pit of his stomach that ten seconds of staring had brought, he noticed something that startled him a little. Spread across Otabek's cheeks and the bridge of his nose was dusty pink blush.

 

He'd been drinking, there was no mistaking it.

 

Even though he worked in night clubs outside the rink, the Kazakh seldom drank. He'd enjoy a single beer, glass of wine or flute of champagne on rare occasions or at banquets, but Yuri could count on ten fingers the number of times he'd seen him drink any more than that. Only twice prior had he seen him drunk. However, even a drop of alcohol would cause his face to flush embarrassingly, usually leading to merciless teasing at the hands of his friends. The state of him, disheveled and half undone, clogged Yuri's throat and sent a warm tickle down his navel that immediately made him feel guilty. 

 

"Where have you been, asshole?" he asked when he'd found his voice, though it had considerably less bite than he'd initially wanted. 

 

The slight flinch Otabek gave ebbed away another wave of the anger he'd built over the course of nine days and deepened his guilt. 

 

"I... was out on the bike," he said slowly, voice rougher than usual.

 

"Out. On the bike," Yuri repeated in disbelief. "For over a fuckin' week?"

 

"Yes," he replied slowly. 

 

Both of them were quiet for a long moment, staring through he screens of their computers at each other. After a few seconds, the Kazakh's eyes fell away out of what Yuri assumed was shame. Back falling against the wall, the Russian slouched in a way that would have Lilia screaming about posture.

 

"You... aren't joking. You were out on the fucking bike this whole time," he said when he realized Otabek's expression hadn't changed.

 

"I stopped a couple times, to eat and sleep," he said with a shrug that had him wincing and reaching towards his shoulder. 

 

"And that?" Yuri wrung a hand at his screen, voice sharp. "Beka, you have to give me something here. Speak."

 

The man on the other side of the call looked like he was choosing his words, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth in a way that squeezed Yuri's throat again. He shifted, the picture shaking a little as he propped himself up on neat, beige sheets and pillows. For a moment, Yuri wondered if he'd get anything out of his quiet friend, but then he started to speak in a tone of voice he'd never heard. Soft, vulnerable and so unlike the Otabek Altin he was used to. 

 

"I needed to get away," he began. "Leave the city for a while to breathe. I left Sunday afternoon and drove through to Atyrau and back with a couple stops in between to visit rinks to get a little practice in when I had the chance."

 

"You rode across Kazakhstan. In November," he huffed. "That doesn't explain why you didn't answer your phone or the bandages." Or why he'd clearly been drinking, though he'd let that slide as he seemed to be mostly unaffected by it. 

 

"I... I forgot my phone here," he said, blush darkening with embarrassment. "And I... may have had to ditch the bike. I hit the road and used my shoulder as a landing pad." 

 

That certainly threw his anger out the window. He sat up again, mouth dropping open as hot worry snaked up his spine. "What do you mean you ditched the bike?! Otabek, what the fuck happened, are you okay?"

 

He grimaced through the screen and his eyes dropped again. Yuri could see the white light of his cellphone cast over his face. A second later, his own phone vibrated with a picture message. The photo had been taken at midday at an intersection. He could see the familiar, if mangled, shape of Otabek's motorcycle wedged under the front end of another vehicle. The front wheel was bent under the car's right front tire, the handlebars twisted and the light shattered. 

 

"I had to get pictures from the police for my insurance company. I had the right of way, but the guy driving the car wasn't paying attention and tried to speed through the intersection. I had to ditch the bike when I realized he was going to hit me and roll," he explained.

 

"Jesus Christ," he said, staring at the crushed head of the bike he had become so familiar with. A part of him was mournful, he'd had a lot of fond memories exploring cities or enjoying the streets of Almaty on that motorcycle. At the same time, he felt a deep relief that his friend hadn't been on the thing when the car had flattened it. "Fuck, are you okay? Your arm,"

 

"Road rash and a nearly dislocated shoulder. I tore the sleeve of my jacket and my arm got the brunt of my landing, but it's not nearly as bad as it could have been if I'd been going faster. I can still compete, but I have to baby it."

 

"Fucking hell, Beka." He couldn't stop a small waver in his voice.

 

Sensing his upset, Otabek offered the barest hint of a smile, though there was no real feeling behind it. "Would you believe it happened when I got back into Almaty? I made the week without even needing to stop for maintenance, but within twenty minutes of being back in the city, I crashed."

 

He fumed. "That's not funny."

 

His smile fell and he bit his lip again, aggravating his windburn. "No, it isn't. Look, Yura," he started again, softening further. "I'm sorry I forgot my phone. I should have given you a call or something when I stopped somewhere."

 

"Just... don't fucking do it again. I was tempted to book a flight there to kick your ass, but Yakov would have shot me."

 

Some of the heightened emotions of the night calmed, the two were quiet for a while. Yuri stroked Potya, who had re-positioned himself in his lap, Otabek fiddling with edge of his sheets. It wasn't uncommon that they spent video calls in silence, but there was still an underlying tension between their screens. Acting unlike himself for the umpteenth time that night, Otabek was the one to break the silence. 

 

"I may take another trip, with Rafael this time. I want to scout out another rink. Astana maybe."

 

"This close to the Grand Prix?" 

 

A nod was his only response. Both had qualified, Yuri after taking silver at the Cup of China and Otabek with a gold at Skate Canada. There were just a few weeks before they'd see each other on the ice in Nagoya, but after a nine day break and an injury, taking on the task of looking for a new rink was insane.

 

"You're crazy, Beka," he sighed, flopping back onto the bed. "You're cutting things really close."

 

"Probably." He didn't sound quite enthused either. Something in Yuri's gut itched again with worry. "I should go, I have practice at eight."

 

"Alright. Just text me tomorrow, please." 

 

"I will. Goodnight, Yura."

 

The call ended and Yuri closed his laptop. So Otabek had been on the road for over a week because... well, he still wasn't sure why actually. Whatever the reason, he hadn't seemed eager to explain exactly what had made him need to get away from Almaty, which was concerning. His best friend was clearly dealing with something serious enough to have him escaping into the countryside of Kazakhstan and indulging in alcohol. Though usually he knew better than to pester him, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was something he needed to help sort out.

 

Sighing, he stroked Potya's silky fur. He'd get to the bottom of this, one way or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor babe, lemme know what y'all think! reach out to me on tumblr too! neeshiii.tumblr.com


End file.
